


july forever

by wandasmaximoffs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, gardener!grantaire, reluctant prince!enjolras, this has been in my wips for like a year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-22 09:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10694052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: It’s no secret that Grantaire’s unemployment has been causing him great grief-- Commissions only go so far, and that’s not far enough for both rent and a borderline-alcohol problem. (There’s nothing borderline about it, really, but-- He’s trying, okay? Get off his back.) Long story short, if he wants to eat next month, he needs a job, pronto. And a job at the palace is still a job, no matter how shitty it might be.





	1. Chapter 1

Enjolras is waving from a balcony, the first time Grantaire sees him.  


Correction: the first time he sees him _in person._ He’s pretty fucking hard to miss, otherwise, considering his mother has his face on at least five separate pieces of chinaware. That’s not even _mentioning_ the constant press coverage of his every move, found in tabloids and on news channels alike.

(Although, Grantaire thinks, they’re pretty much the same thing, both as corrupt as they can be and experts at nothing but mangling the news of the world. Not that he cares all that much.)  


“He’s not _bad_ looking, up close.” Says Eponine, flicking the butt of her cigarette into the fountain they’re currently leaning against. And, yeah, _okay,_ Grantaire can definitely see where she’s coming from, even from this distance. Eponine would know what she’s talking about, too, working in the palace and all.  “Cheekbones could cut _glass._ ”

Grantaire snorts. Of course he’s not _bad looking._ He doubts they’d be stood there enjoying their lunch break amidst crowds of screaming fans, clamoring to get his attention from up there on his royal balcony if he was.

“Come on.” He says, taking her by the arm and hauling her up, “Break time’s over. Time for you to get back to their royal pains in the asses.”  


* * *

  
“I have good news, and I have bad news.”  Says Eponine, later, at the bar. She’s changed out of her uniform, grey dress replaced with a black shirt and jeans, topped off with her leather jacket. It’s kind of intimidating, but Grantaire is pretty sure that that has less to do with the clothes and more to do with the fact that it’s _Eponine._  


“Okay,” Grantaire squints, wary, and Eponine rolls her eyes. “Hit me with the good news first. Then the bad.”

“Don’t look at me like that, or I won’t tell you shit.” Says Eponine, smacking him lightly upside the head. “Aight, good news-- Feuilly told me he can get you a job. Don’t get too excited,” She warns, noticing his slowly growing smile, “It’s at the palace. One of the gardeners quit, and he needs a replacement.”  


It’s no secret that Grantaire’s unemployment has been causing him great grief-- Commissions only go so far, and that’s not far enough for both rent and a borderline-alcohol problem. (There’s nothing borderline about it, really, but-- He’s trying, okay? Get off his back.) Long story short, if he wants to _eat_ next month, he needs a job, _pronto._ And a job at the palace is still a _job,_ no matter how shitty it might be.  


“You,” He says, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug to which she protests heartily, “You are the best. A lifesaver. Shots for you, on me, my good lady.”

“Ugh, God, I hope you don’t mean that literally.” She says, shoving him slightly, but she’s smiling, so he counts that as a win.  


* * *

  
He settles into the job like a Russian nesting doll does with a slightly larger Russian nesting doll. Or something like that.  


Grantaire, while not a _professional gardener,_ is good with his hands, and he and Feuilly are close enough that he overlooks his less than impressive resume with minimal eye rolling. What’s more, Grantaire actually _likes_ gardening. It’s not like painting, doesn’t give him the same kind of thrill, but it’s miles better than being stuck behind a desk or working in retail.  


(He’s of the opinion that every retail worker is both a god and saint, to work so hard and still be so patient. He can work hard, and he can be patient, but he cannot do both.)  


The gardens of the palace are _impressive._ Large and sprawling, with pretty much every kind of non-toxic plant or flower you can imagine growing in various greenhouses, or in flowerbeds planted with care around delicate-looking water features.

It’s peaceful, and he appreciates that.

Well. It _is_ peaceful, until his methodical trimming of some rose beds is interrupted by a loud shriek.  


The scream catches him off guard, and he flails for a moment before dropping his shears, swearing when they drop heavily onto his foot.

“Ah, _fuck,_ that is _heavy-- Prouvaire!_ Keep your screams to yourself, _please_!” He yells, but the last of his words are in good humour, as he straightens up to see Jehan, sprinting full-force towards him.

Grantaire is pretty sure that he could get into some major trouble for speaking so informally to an _actual member of the royal family_ , but he doesn’t have much time to give that much thought, since it takes approximately 0.2 seconds for Jehan to barrel into him, and retrieve his fallen shears.

“Gran _taire,_ ” They whine, looking forlornly at the dead rose heads scattered on the floor in front of them, but Grantaire cuts them off before they can go any further, equal parts amused and exasperated.

“They were dead, Jehan, and it had to be done.”  


It’s impossible to work in the gardens and not know Jehan. Being the child of the King’s brother, they technically _do_ count as a royal, but rarely act like one. Grantaire met them on his first day on the job, and has since has had time to get used to their…. Eccentricities.  They’re about the same age as Grantaire, maybe a year between them, and they have exactly _no_ sense of fashion. (To be fair, neither does Grantaire, but he might have more of a chance at looking _suave_ if _he_ were that rich.)

They are dramatic, and poetic, and rarely judgemental. Tall, thin enough that they look like a stiff wind would carry them off, with red hair usually braided and tossed over their shoulder, which is something they often fight with their father about. They’re talkative, too, and Grantaire found himself making a fast friend in them, considering the amount of time they spend haunting the gardens.  


They’re currently holding his shears out of reach. Grantaire sighs.

“Jehan,” He warns, “Give me back my shears, or I will make your peonies _suffer._ ”

“You _wouldn’t,_ ” They gasp, in mock-terror, and Grantaire smiles. “You wouldn’t attack some poor, innocent peonies just because I object to your brutal murdering of my roses, would you, R?”

“Oh, I would, and you know it,” He says, taking the shears back. It’s early April, and some of the peonies are just starting to bloom. Grantaire has no problems with stunting their growth a little. “And they’re not _your roses._ Technically, they’re the king’s roses, but I take care of them, so for all intents and purposes, they’re _my roses_.”

  
Jehan hums in agreement, though Grantaire thinks it's more out of an unwillingness to diminish his handiwork than in _actual_ acceptance, and settles themselves on the grass beside him. “Talk to me, R, Enjolras is in an awfully bad mood, and I just can’t stand to listen to him rant about his father any more.”

“Well, if he’s in an _awfully_ bad mood,” Says Grantaire, echoing Jehan’s affected accent and earning himself a light smack on the ankle. The Royals all sound ridiculous, and it’s something he and Eponine have gotten quite a few laughs out of. As for Enjolras’ bad mood, well-- He’s never actually _met_ the guy, but from what he’s heard, he is _always_ in a bad mood. Nothing new there.  


“ _Okay_ , okay,” Says Grantaire, turning back to his roses, ”So. Tell me about this _horrific_ plaid-on-plaid ensemble you have going on today.”


	2. Chapter 2

April becomes May, and May becomes June; As the weather gets warmer, the work gets harder, but Grantaire can’t bring himself to mind all that much, settling almost-happily into a solid routine: He works, goes home, paints or drinks (usually both,) falls asleep and then does it all again.

 

(So it’s not the healthiest of routines, sue him. It’s better than he’s been in a while.)

 

The daily meetings held for the palace workers every morning are a big part of this routine. Staff meetings, while apparently necessary, are probably the most _boring_ things Grantaire has ever been forced to sit through. The fact that Eponine is there and Feuilly is the one running the whole show makes them _almost_ bearable, but otherwise he just finds himself daydreaming about decapitating himself with his own shears.

Half the shit Feuilly talks about doesn’t even apply to him, anyway, working in the gardens and _away_ from any royals he might accidentally offend. 

(Jehan doesn’t count, somehow. Grantaire knows that technically they _are_ a prince, or-- _Shit, is there a gender neutral term for that?_ He makes a note to ask them, next time he sees them. _Anyway._ He knows Jehan is a royal, but the fact that they’re not a complete shithead sets them apart from the rest, in his humble opinion.)

 

Grantaire is shaken out of his daydreams when Feuilly mentions something about the Duke visiting for the next few months. What’s his name, Mario? Martin? _Whatever._ Duke something-stupid Pontmercy. He only knows his _last_ name because the dude visited last year, and Eponine, bless her soul, had fallen head over heels.

 

They’ve discussed his _“stupid face,”_ and _“stupid mannerisms,”_ and _“stupid kindness,”_ (whatever that means) many times and in various states of coherency at the bar. (Grantaire isn’t sure if he really is stupid, but that’s how Eponine describes him, and she’s not usually a bad judge of character.)

 

She can deny her crush all she wants, but he has solid evidence in the form of her younger brother, Gavroche, who has confirmed this fact for him many times over. The kid's smarter than most adults, so who is he to argue?

He glances over to her, and she looks stricken at the prospect of-- _Marius,_ that’s it-- _Marius_ hanging around the palace for so long, so he tries to school his expression into something resembling sympathy, and makes another note to catch her at some point, when they’re dismissed.  


* * *

 

It’s a nice day, really; The sun is shining, at least, which for an outdoors worker is always a blessing. Grantaire spends most of the morning trying to clear his mind of Eponine’s stricken expression and focus on his petunias.

This proves to get harder for him as they day goes on, and the sun rises higher, causing the temperature to reach frankly _ridiculous_ highs, the _nice day_ turning real fucking sour real fucking fast. Feuilly had warned them all that morning about wearing hats and sunscreen, and Grantaire curses himself for not listening, pulling his hair back into a poor excuse bun and cursing _Apollo,_ too, for being such a _dick._

 

He’s working at the very back of the gardens today, maintaining some shrubs that have been long-forgotten by most anyone who ever knew they existed in the first place. It’s easy work, and more importantly, _quiet_ work, but even the silence of the forgotten gardens isn’t enough to soothe the irritable prickling of his skin against the rough uniform shirt in the heat.

There’s no one around. Not even Jehan hangs around back here, usually-- _It’s not like I could get in any trouble for taking it off, could I?_ He thinks. _You can’t get in trouble for something no one knows about._

The minute Grantaire pulls his shirt over his head and some cool air hits his back, he’s certain he’s come to the right decision, theoretical consequences be damned.

 

It’s easier to get lost in his work after that, the heat moving down a level from Unbearable to Almost Unbearable with the loss of his dark shirt (which is now tied clumsily around his waist) and allowing him to actually give a damn about what he’s doing.

By the time he stops to take a small break, the small portion he’s been working on is almost unrecognisable, and he’s about to congratulate himself on his botanical talents when one of the untouched rose bushes a few feet away from him _rustles_ and says, “Ouch!”

 

_What the fuck? Is this heatstroke? Am I hallucinating? Or, wait--_

 

“Prouvaire,” Grantaire sighs, pushing himself up off the grass and dusting his pants off, “Please remove yourself from my roses before I come in there and remove you myself.”

The shrub rustles again, and Grantaire sighs good-naturedly. There are worse ways to be interrupted, he supposes, a nosy supervisor or, god forbid, a lost royal.

Jehan doesn’t answer his calls, so Grantaire decides to take matters into his own hands. He knows for a fact that Jehan isn’t supposed to be there anyway-- They’ve been complaining for the past week about the state lunch that they’re supposed to be attending right now, but it doesn’t surprise Grantaire that they’ve chosen to skip it.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve ditched an official event to come and sit in the gardens and read, and definitely will not be the last.

 

Shouldering his way through a rose bush dripping in thorns _shirtless_ is not one of his brightest ideas-- (add it to his list of shitty decisions, along with pretty much anything he’s ever done with Bahorel.) --But, he’s nothing if not persistent, so he continues to push his way through the thistled branches in a bid to find and retrieve his missing poet.

“ _Fuck,_ ouch--” He spits, stumbling out of the bush gracelessly. He’d half expected Jehan to be laying on the soil, inside the actual goddamn shrub, because that’s just the kind of weird shit they do, but no; The Bush From Hell opens into a pretty nice little clearing, if a bit overgrown.

It’s a fairly small space, closed in on all sides by similar Hell Shrubs, with a large, old-looking marble slab of a bench sitting neatly in the center. The grass is long enough here that it almost reaches the top of it, where Grantaire assumes Jehan is laying with a book on their chest.

 

(He wouldn’t know, doubled over as he is-- He can see legs, though, so there’s definitely someone else here, and who else would it be?)

 

“Fuck, Prouvaire, the things I do for you, really, I…” He trails off, finally straightening up, and realises that the person on the bench is definitely _not_ Prouvaire.

  
Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohoho what u got urself into this time grantaire?? time will tell :vv as always if the fancy strikes you feel free to leave comments / kudos etc or come talk to me on tumblr @ rintaire!


	3. Chapter 3

Yeah,  _ definitely  _ not Prouvaire.

For one wild second he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, looking at a porcelain plate in a cabinet that is rarely opened, but then--

“Oh,” Says Enjolras, looking mildly alarmed, “Hello.” 

\--Then he’s forced back into reality.

Unfortunately for Grantaire,  _ “reality” _ in this moment is the heir to the throne of England lounging on a bench while he stands in front of him, shirtless and scratched to hell after pushing his way through a bush and yelling about said heir to the throne’s cousin. 

“Uh,” He says, gaping-- What the fuck is he supposed to do in this situation? Bow or something? Try to find a natural way to put his shirt back on? Enjolras blinks at him, and Grantaire notes just how long his eyelashes are. In a totally non-creepy and objective way.

“Hi? I-- Gardener.” Grantaire sweeps his arms out in a vague gesture.  _ I gardener,  _ he thinks,  _ very coherent, you muppet. _

Enjolras frowns slightly before his expression becomes one of understanding, lips making a small ‘o’, and Grantaire has to take a minute to think about how porcelain plates just don’t do him justice.  
  


If he weren’t shirtless and gaping, he’d wish for a sketchbook, or a canvas, anything to meet the challenge presented to him as an  _ artist  _ and capture the impossible lines of Enjolras’ face, his hair, the curve of his jaw or the way his top lip dips ever so slightly at the center.

But he is shirtless and gaping, and that’s a much bigger worry right now. He’s not exactly self-conscious about his  _ actual  _ body-- He knows he’s not really  _ “conventionally attractive,”  _ whatever that means, but he came to terms with that years ago. And besides, boxing and working in the gardens all day has him in pretty good form, aside from the copious odd-shaped scars from pulling stupid, dare-slash-alcohol-fuelled stunts with Bahorel.

Most of the skin is covered with tattoos, anyway, and _ that’s  _ where the self-consciousness lies.

 

He can see Enjolras looking at them, can trace the line of his gaze as it moves up the giant ash tree that takes up the left side of his torso, with branches covered in blossoms that stretch out over his chest and wrap around the top of his right arm; Then down, past the schools of  flower petals to the grapevines that taper off into swirls of green at his wrist, and back up again.

His gaze lingers slightly on the bluebird perched on the branch nearest his collarbone, and Grantaire wonders if the way the corner of Enjolras’ lips tips up slightly is just a trick of the light.

Those are just the ones most noticeable of his many, many tattoos; Grantaire knows that in between the flowers and branches there are words, quotes from poems and friends and movies, squeezed carefully onto leaves or following the curves of a vine. His back is covered in constellations, thin lines of white ink connecting his own freckles into Sirius, Leo and Scorpius.

The only person he knows with more tattoos than him is Bahorel, which is understandable, considering he’s an actual tattoo artist.

They’re not something he feels ashamed or embarrassed about, fuck no, that’s not where the concern stems; It’s just-- They’re very  _ personal.  _ Most of them are of his own design, and they all mean something. Thinking about some prince he doesn’t even know  _ judging  _ them makes his skin crawl. 

_ Besides.  _ Any unsuspecting person who finds themselves suddenly standing shirtless in front of a  _ prince  _ is gonna be at least a little self conscious, and anyone who says otherwise is a filthy liar.

 

“You’re bleeding,” Frowns Enjolras, gesturing to his chest with the book in his hand, and pulling Grantaire out of his reverie. He can feel the blush rising up his chest and his neck before he even registers his words. By the time he does, Enjolras is on his feet, blushing almost as profusely as he is and standing a few paces away, wary.

Grantaire looks down. He is indeed bleeding, pretty heavily, for the size of it, from a small scratch on his chest. The Hell Shrub didn’t let him out uninjured after all, then.

“Oh, shit--” He mutters, pulling his shirt from around his waist and pressing it over the scratch. Great, he really wanted to spend his evening scrubbing his own blood out of his uniform. Who  _ wouldn’t  _ want to spend their precious spare moments to themselves doing shit like that?  _ Typical. _

 

“Yeah, sorry for-- Interrupting you? Your… Princiness? I thought you were, uh, somebody else."

Grantaire keeps his gaze fixed firmly on a small pebble on the floor, regretting every staff meeting and etiquette tip he’s ever ignored in his life. In his defense, it is 2017, and not 1603; It’s not like they could have him  _ beheaded  _ or anything. 

But scant pride and invaluable head be damned, he needs this job. He  _ likes  _ this job. He doesn’t want to lose it just because he doesn’t know how to address a prince hiding out in some forgotten corner of the gardens. 

Enjolras remains silent, so Grantaire risks a glance up. He looks-- Amused?  _ The fuck?  _

There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and his eyes are soft when he says, “Your princiness? That’s new.”

Grantaire lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, huffing slightly in what  _ could  _ be a laugh, but is mostly relief. “Well-- I dunno, man. Your _ Royal _ Princiness? Is that better?”

Enjolras  _ does  _ laugh at that, loud and clear. Grantaire is suddenly struck with the desire to make him do that again, do it twice, three times, a  _ thousand  _ times-- Anything to keep that look of sheer,  _ open  _ happiness on his face.

“Enjolras is fine. My father would say that the proper title would be  _ Your Royal Highness,  _ but I don’t-- Enjolras is just fine.” He says, expression clouding over slightly, and Grantaire squints. Who on God’s good earth would disagree with being a fucking  _ prince?  _

“And you?” He asks, and it takes Grantaire a second to realise that he’s talking to him _. Alright, you muppet, try to be coherent this time.  _

“Oh-- Grantaire. Friends call me R.” 

 

Enjolras frowns slightly, a small crease appearing between his brows, probably trying to work out how the hell he gets R from Grantaire--  _ French family, what can he say _ \-- But then his expression opens up again, and he  _ laughs, again,  _ and Grantaire doesn’t think he’s going to survive this exchange if he doesn’t at least  _ try  _ to stop noticing how fucking pretty he is. 

“R, capital-R, Grand-R, Grantaire,” He says, smiling softly. “I like that.”

Grantaire tries not to gape. He shouldn’t be here, chatting to the fucking  _ prince  _ about nicknames. He can think of a million places he’d rather be, stuck back in the Hell Shrub being somewhere on that list. 

At least in there he wouldn’t be able to say anything miraculously incriminating, or accidentally tell the heir to the throne that he’s smoking hot. Which, Grantaire’s mind supplies,  _ he really fucking is. _

The hedges closing the little clearing off are tall and thick enough that barely any breeze is able to pass through, intensifying the heat of the day by a tenfold. Enjolras doesn’t seem to feel it at all; Where Grantaire knows he’s a sweating, bleeding mess after a day of hard work and fighting actual bushes, Enjolras looks like-- Well, a prince. Not a hair out of place, not a crease in his clothes. 

 

The book in his hands reads  _ “HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, _ ” and Grantaire is almost surprised. He’d expected it to be something a little more… Royal? One of the classics, maybe, though he himself would argue that Harry Potter  _ is  _ a classic. No, something more along the lines of  _ The Great Gatsby _ or  _ Of Mice And Men. _ It looks well-loved, too, with a cracked spine and battered edges.

“Harry Potter?” Grantaire asks, smiling slightly despite himself. Enjolras puts the book down on the bench, flushing slightly in a way that makes the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks more prominent.  _ Stop thinking about his freckles, you absolute pebble, Jesus Christ-- _

“Yes,” He says, defensively, “They’re good books. Carrying a good message. And good characters.”

The book’s cover wavers slightly, picked up by the scant, rare breeze. Grantaire licks his lips, and drops heavily to the floor, arranging himself so he’s sitting cross-legged. He figures if Enjolras wanted him to skedaddle, he’d have said so by now, and he’d already be on his way.

“So you’ve read them all before, then?” He asks, peeling the bunched up shirt off of his chest and inspecting the damage there. The scratch looks a lot smaller without all the blood. Satisfied that he’s not going to bleed out all over the goddamn prince of England, he nods, and looks up to where Enjolras has taken a seat on the bench. 

“I have,” Enjolras nods, “Many times. _ Too  _ many times, Jehan says. Variety is the spice of life and all, but-- Well. Some things are just comforting, you know?”

“I do.” He says, softly. He definitely  _ does _ know, although he’s pretty sure relating Enjolras’ oh-so-touching love of Harry Potter to his own borderline alcoholism would be a little crass, on his part. 

Sitting in the dirt, shirtless and bleeding, in front of the Prince of England could also be considered a little crass, on his part. 

 

The thought spurs Grantaire into action, getting to his feet as gracefully as he can. He can feel Enjolras’ gaze on him, but is careful not to meet it; He’s overstepped too much already. As shameless as he likes to consider himself, there is a  _ little  _ of his dignity left, though right now it’s hanging on by a thread.

“Sorry again, uh, sir,” He says, “For interrupting you. And-- All the rest.”

Enjolras looks like he’s about to say something, but Grantaire doesn’t wait for a dismissal; Just gives an awkward half-bow, and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whooo lads this looks like its shaping up to be a lot more than just five chapters afkgjthb
> 
> as always feel free to tip ur fic writers w comments or kudos or hmu on tumblr @ rintaire!


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